Unsolicited Musings at 6:02
by konpyu-tamania
Summary: Sometimes when you wake up you just want to go through the motions of the day without having to think too hard. Is it really too much to ask? Apparently it is. Vague allusions to 3x4; 2 4. Post series and EW. Some foul language and references to sex.


_**Unsolicited Musings at 6:02**_

**Author:** mellonemrys (konpyu-tamania)  
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Pairings:** Vague allusions to 3x4; 2+4  
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Rating:** PG-13, for language.  
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Warnings/Spoilers:** Post series and EW. Some foul language and references to sex. Very close 3rd person narrative.

**Word Count:** 1786  
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Notes:** I started playing Q in a RP on LJ, called Digital Dive (a friend wanted to play Duo, and wanted cast mates for him, so I gave in and apped). He's probably the closest to canon I've ever played Q, and I find him so very interesting. There are a lot of character qualities that I've just never explored with Q before because I've been off writing in AU land for so long! That and after some long, long, in depth character discussions with Chibi-Hentai Chan and Kitsunehi during cons I've fleshed out my canon version of him a lot more than whenever the last time I wrote him was...(I think it was back when I started in the fandom!).  
This fic this falls within his canon, before he is taken to the RP's universe. I've really been wanting to write things for him besides the RP, because I love his inner dialogue.  
I also apologize if the Arabic towards the end is wrong...I've been meaning to pick up an Arabic dictionary, but haven't gotten a chance to, so I'm working with an online glossary. (I thought that romanizations of Japanese and Chinese were hard to find...once you try Arabic and some of the Cyrillic languages its nearly impossible!)  
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Summary:** Sometimes when you wake up you just want to go through the motions of the day without having to think too hard. Is it really too much to ask? Apparently it is.

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_**October 28th, AC 197**_

The bed creaked slightly as its blond occupant rolled over to check the blinking numbers of the clock on the bedside table. 6:02. Quatre slumped into the bed again, he only had three precious minutes left before the clock started wailing at him. Face in his pillow, he considered not getting up. They didn't really need him today, it was a routine check on an old warehouse. He could call in sick and no one would care.

Except his nosy therapist. He could just imagine what she'd ask, "How long have you been depressed, Mr. Winner? Do you find that your normal activities don't hold your interest anymore? What can I do to help you?"

He groaned, he wasn't depressed, not really at least. And his normal activities consisted of doing paper work and attending board meetings. How could that interest _anyone_ for more than a few months! And lastly, his therapist was the last person he wanted help from, ever. So maybe he was a little depressed at the life he'd chosen to live. After all he'd effectively isolated himself from the other pilots. Who wanted to deal with all the press, and stress, and photographers hiding in the bushes when they came to see him. He could have claimed that he wanted some time to go to school to get a degree he didn't need. Or that he wanted to travel the ESUN to see the full damage of the war. Or something! But _noooooo_ Quatre Winner had to get his way. And after the war Quatre Winner had felt-

The alarm blared happily and Quatre groped around for it for a few moments before finally yanking the cord from the wall. Silence echoed in his ears for what seemed like a long time before he pulled himself up and out of bed. He shot an annoyed glare at the clock and tried to remember his train of thought.

It was gone, replaced by the nagging feeling at the back of his mind that had been present for several months. He pushed the feeling away and ran his hand through his hair, taking stock of the familiar room around him. It was small, and relatively sparse, just his bed, an end table and a desk covered in paper work. He hadn't wanted a lot of clutter, he had enough of that floating around his mind, thank you. Besides, this way he was able to give himself the appearance of normality, to pretend for a few moments every morning that he _wasn't_ Quatre Winner. But just some teenager living on his own in an upscale, downtown apartment.

He'd been living here almost a year now, after finding the main house too big for a single permanent resident. In all honesty he would have liked to donate the house if he didn't think his remaining sisters would have heart attacks then haunt him from beyond the grave. So instead it stood, mostly empty, taking up space that could be used for something...useful. He'd been considering turning it into a war memorial museum for a few months now. After all, his sisters hardly ever visited, and when they did they were hardly ever at the house. Hotels _had_ been invented for a reason. It was about time that certain portions of the Winner fortune begin contributing to the economy, rather than sitting around as numbers in a bank account.

His cell phone buzzed from where it was buried on the desk. He crossed the room and picked it up, wondering why the hell his project director would be calling him at six in the morning. Six in the morning - he had to sleep too! Didn't anyone understand that! Letting it ring a few more times he sighed, he was too nice to people, and they took advantage of that. Oh, their son's birthday was coming up, and they had to plan a party and couldn't finish the rest of their paperwork...yes well, once upon a time Quatre Winner had had days off, where he could sometimes sleep past six in the morning without getting a hysteric phone call.

"Winner speaking." He answered curtly, hoping that the annoyed and sleep deprived feelings he was suffering from would seep through into his voice.

"Sir, we've been taking another look at the blueprints for the Martin Warehouse, and there appears to be something..." The man paused on the other end of the line trying to find the best word to use from somewhere in his over priced education.

Quatre groaned and pulled his copy of the blueprints to the top of the stack of papers on his desk. "Strange, Ulan, I know, that's why I'm going to take a look at it today, in person."

"Oh...I didn't realize that you knew...Sir, you're coming by _today_, today?" Ulan asked a little nervously.

"Yes, and I need to hang up so that I can get there. Goodbye Ulan." He said as he closed the phone and then resisted the urge to throw it out the window. He could deal with this. He had been for months. He just had to put on the Quatre Winner smile, and remember his p's and q's and he could make it through another day of the life that was quickly becoming his personal hell.

He needed a vacation. A very long vacation to no where in particular, though preferably somewhere they didn't know him. Slipping out of his boxes and making his way to the shower he remembered that he hadn't spoken with Duo in months. He'd been up to his ears with projects, and Duo had been busy building up his salvage company with Hilde into something respectable. It was still a bit strange though. As he stepped into the shower he slowly let his empathic shields down as part of his morning ritual. The emotions of his neighbours quickly filtered in, erasing his own annoyances as he flipped through them like a catalog.

The couple downstairs had been fighting for what seemed like months, but they finally seemed to have come to a truce. One that involved a lot of passion, which Quatre really didn't need his empathy to know about. The sighs and grunts penetrating the apartment block were enough to let everyone know that they'd made up. Next the family on the right. The were fairly normal, the parents were tired more often than not, and wished to drink their coffee in the peace and quiet before the children woke up. Their daughter was a few years younger than him, and had just discovered boys much to her parent's horror. The son was eight, and painfully normal and happy. On the left was the cranky old man, who cried himself to sleep at night over the wife and son he'd lost in the war. Above him the woman who liked to bring home different men every week was sleeping late after a long night, dreaming pleasantly about things Quatre could only guess.

They were all so predictable, their emotional routines matching their daily ones. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, letting the water and foreign emotions wash over him. This was his release, the time he didn't have to think about anything, or anyone, or contracts, or paperwork, or his past, or his distant friends. He could just float on the highs and lows of others' emotions until he was ready to face the rest of the world.

His body shuttered as his pulled his shields up too quickly, blocking out everything but his own emotions. It was painful how lonely it made him feel, but he felt after everything that had happened, he'd rather not know what other people felt. Outside of his morning indulgences, and a few close friends, Quatre had blocked out everyone. Even Trowa, though he occasionally felt a slight pull at the back of his mind from the other boy. He'd decided it was an unfair advantage to have over someone you were trying to create a deeper relationship with. And he was scared, just like any other teenager was when they encountered love for the first time. Would they return your feelings; should you say anything; if you changed something about yourself would they like you more?

But now he was starting to drift back into that 'depressed' territory that made his therapist's eyes light up. So much for convincing himself he didn't need 'help'. He needed it. He just didn't want it. Or rather, he didn't want to admit to himself that the nightmares might not go away. That he'd always scan a room for potential threats, exits points, and the best places to hide explosives in order to cause maximum damage to the structure. No, he didn't want to think about those things, let alone talk about them with a civilian who wouldn't understand him at an emotional level.

Instead he'd get dressed, gulp down a cup of coffee and stuff a piece of toast in his mouth on the way out the door. Glancing at the three picture frames on his kitchenette's counter he began mulling over his mental copy of the warehouse blueprints in his head. Touching the top of the first wooden frame he set it face down, hiding the smile on his much younger features as he clung to his father. 

_"Sabāhu l-khayr_ _wālid_." He whispered, bowing his head slightly and moving to the next picture.

His sister Iria smiled at him from years ago on a vacation she had taken to Earth. Her hair was the same colour as the beach, and it made him wish, not for the first time that they had been granted a little more time together. He set her photograph down on the counter as well. "_Sabāhu l-khayr_ Iria."

The last photograph he always took longer to look at. He'd had it for a shorter period of time he rationalized, and still wanted to memorize every centimetre of it. In truth it was harder to part with someone that he could still have, rather than people dead and buried. "_Qalb_..._ilā l-liqā'_."

He never expected any more of an answer than the smile that he'd captured two years before. That was how it had been, and how it would stay. One more quick check of his reflection in the mirror next to the door, briefcase under his arm, and he was off for another day. For better or for worse, his musing would keep his mind busy while his body moved through the day for him. After all, to _really_ be Quatre Winner, all you needed was his first rate smile. Beyond that, it was up to the tabloids and his **therapist** to piece together what made him, him.  
_  
Good luck figuring that out._


End file.
